


Adagio

by towine (blacktreecle)



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, background laurent/gerome, reluctant allies to friends to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 05:04:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16527929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blacktreecle/pseuds/towine
Summary: Inigo wondered: in another lifetime, if Grima never took to the skies, if their parents never died, if the shadows were gone from Owain’s eyes—if all that were different, could they have been friends?Never did he imagine he would get the opportunity to find out.





	Adagio

**Author's Note:**

> i recently played awakening for the first time (my first fire emblem title!), loved it, and loved owain and inigo's supports so much that the first thing i did after finishing the game was open a doc and outline this :') i feel late to the party but i'm posting this anyway because i love these two, and i'm happy to just toss this into the world and hope someone enjoys it.
> 
> i have not played fates yet but i am aware these two are in it, apparently? maybe now that i've finished this fic i'll get the chance to play that soon ahaha
> 
> special thanks to allie/artenon for the beta! i appreciate it so much <3

Inigo finds him on the outskirts of camp, just before the forest thickens and where a stream passes around the perimeter in a quiet rush of water, glinting with moonlight. Owain sits on a rock at the water’s edge, tracing idle shapes in the surface with a stick. It makes him look young, younger than Inigo knows he truly is. Younger than any of them have been allowed to be.

Inigo strolls closer. “It’s dangerous to wander by yourself, you know.”

Owain doesn’t startle, not that Inigo really expected him to. “I’ll return soon,” he answers in a glum tone that makes Inigo pause.

Words come to him more easily in his older years than they ever did when he was a shy, bumbling child, but there are still moments they’re elusive. With Owain, common ground is even more difficult to find. Inigo knows he teases unnecessarily, but Owain always pushes back, uncowed by the bite of his words. It’s always seemed easier to let things go on that way.

“What are you doing here?” Owain asks. He finally glances over at him, the stick halting in the water and leaving a rippling trail in its wake.

“Cynthia asked me to find you.” Inigo sits a respectable distance away on a nearby rock, careful not to get mud on his boots. “No one’s seen you at camp for at least an hour and the mess tent is closing up soon. She knows you haven’t eaten yet.”

“She worries too much.”

“So.” Inigo raises his eyebrows pointedly. “The more interesting question is: what are _you_ doing here?”

“Why do you care?”

Irritation bites at Inigo, and he is half inclined to stand and walk back to camp by himself.

“Very well. You don’t need to tell me, but you haven’t told me to leave yet and clearly you’re trying to work through something by sitting in the mud and drawing sad circles. If you prefer to keep brooding, then by all means, brood.”

The stick snaps in Owain’s fist.

The two halves fall into the water and are carried away by the current. Owain glares. Inigo glares back. Around them, wind whistles through the trees and the stream flows on.

Owain looks away.

Inigo almost triumphs internally at winning the glaring match until Owain sighs and slumps his shoulders.

“The village we passed through today,” he says. “We’ve been there before.”

“We only arrived in Valm a few days ago—”

“No, no.” Owain waves a hand. “ _Before_.”

Ice drops into Inigo’s gut, the same cold feeling he gets whenever he thinks about _before_. Truthfully, he doesn’t remember much about the village they passed today en route to the Mila Tree. It was yet untouched by Walhart or Yen’fay’s armies and the Shepherds fought to keep it that way, clashing with a threatening band of soldiers nearby. The battle ended with minimal injuries on their side and the gratitude of the village, so there was little reason for Inigo or anyone else to disappear into the forest afterwards to sulk.

“I thought maybe you came here because you remembered, too.” Owain watches the stream again, chin resting on his knee pulled up to his chest. He frowns faintly. “But I suppose not.”

“I…” Inigo’s brow furrows as he tries to dig up the memory. “I don’t—”

“The village was different then. Risen got to it.”

The ice turns sharp, stabbing Inigo within as the memory rushes in.

The village on fire, smoke billowing high into the dark sky. Him and Owain hiding in the forest’s edge, knowing that the Risen weren’t far. Him and Owain running. The sound of marching feet not far behind them.

“Inigo?”

“I remember.”

Inigo sags in his seat, curls over his knees and stares down at the ground.

“I remember now,” he says.

Neither of them say anything for a moment. Inigo doesn’t do well with silence, too used to filling up the space with chatter, one-sided if necessary. He only does silence by himself when he’s practicing his dancing away from watching eyes, and even then there’s at least the sound of music playing along in his head.

Silence with Owain is especially unnerving, but Inigo does not know what to do to fix it.

Wonderful. Now he’s the one brooding.

He takes a breath, lets the cool night air fill his lungs, then expels it outwards and imagines the dark memory floating away with it. He knows it won’t truly leave him—no memory of their future ever will—but it’s no use sitting like this when Cynthia still waits for them back at camp.

“Come on.” He rises to his feet. Owain looks at him with a raised brow. “We ought to head back.”

Owain’s mouth pinches, his sword hand fidgeting. If he stubbornly still wishes to stay then Inigo will leave him, but Owain pushes himself off the rock.

The walk back to camp is silent except for the rustle of grass. Inigo watches the distant light of camp where Cynthia waits for them, along with the rest of their companions who are resting and eating and laughing with one another after a hard day’s fight.

“We saved it today, though,” he says.

Owain stops, falling a step behind.

Inigo looks back at him. “This time is different. We’ll save them all.”

It feels bold to say it out loud even if it’s just the two of them out here. Despite all of Inigo’s practice to overcome the shyness that still occasionally plagues him, there are still moments he wants to backtrack on his words, a blush rising to his face, his hands fumbling. He nearly does so now, but then Owain smiles for the first time that night, like an emerging crescent moon, or the sun’s slow rise over the edge of the earth.

“Now that should be my line, Inigo.” The smile widens to a grin. Owain begins walking ahead once more, stronger in stride. “This paragon of justice refuses to let the ruinous machinations of the Risen plague these lands once more.”

And he’s back. Instead of the usual derision, Inigo feels something within him loosen. Of all the ways he could have ever imagined himself reacting to Owain’s persona, relieved would never have been one of them. Yet here he is.

“Of course you will.” Inigo walks after him. “And I suppose you’ll protect the next village all by yourself, as well.”

“Why would I?” Owain says. “I have the most stalwart of companions with me.”

Inigo doesn’t know what to say to that, but they reach camp before he can think of a response. Cynthia waves Owain over to tell him to hurry and grab dinner, leaving Inigo to walk alone to his tent, thinking.

Back then, back in their future, he wondered something. While he and Owain fled from the Risen, tree branches whipping their faces in their haste, Owain grabbed Inigo’s arm when he began to slow, exhaustion making his legs heavy.

He said, “Keep running, Inigo. Dammit, _keep running_.”

Watching Owain in front of him, his hair matted and caught with leaves, his armor worn, a fresh cut on his cheek, Inigo wondered: in another lifetime, if Grima never took to the skies, if their parents never died, if the shadows were gone from Owain’s eyes—if all that were different, could they have been friends?

Never did he imagine he would get the opportunity to find out.

* * *

It rains further in their journey to the Mila Tree.

The forests grow denser and taller as they march on under Say’ri’s guidance through the unfamiliar Valmese landscape. But no matter how much larger the trees grow and how much higher the canopy reaches, the rain still falls and falls, soaking through their clothes and armor, chilling them to the bone while the thick mud sucks at their boots. There is nothing even remotely graceful about it much to Inigo’s dismay, and he pushes his bangs away from his face pointlessly once more only to grimace when they flop back down.

Laurent tries to conjure a spell to protect himself and nearby allies from the rain, but so far the wide brim of his hat has kept the downpour out of his eyes far better than any spell has. Inigo has never eyed mage’s garb enviously before, but he finds himself reconsidering them now. Does the convoy carry spare mage hats? Perhaps he’ll ask Chrom when he has the chance.

“Coin for your thoughts?” Olivia asks beside him, head tilted curiously, smile playing at her lips. Even in the rain and mud her movements are hardly hindered at all, her dancer’s grace helping her move much more elegantly than any of them, himself included, despite all the practice he does every day.

“Just thinking about what I’d do for an umbrella right about now,” he sighs. “I don’t suppose Maribelle is open to sharing hers?”

“She always shares with Lissa, I’m afraid. You can use my sash to shield the rain, if you wish.”

“You need that for dancing, I couldn’t possibly risk dirtying it! And anyway,” he says, glancing away, “I have a sash as well.”

“Oh, of course! For dancing too, right?”

“Well, yes, but—what I mean to say is, it’s yours.”

“Oh,” she breathes. “Oh.”

“You gave it to me. Not easily, I might add.” Inigo tries for levity instead of letting the mood darken like it does whenever discussion of the future arises. “It was your favorite so you only took it out for special occasions and hardly let me touch it. Of course, that didn’t stop me from sneaking it out and practicing with it when you weren’t looking.”

“A troublemaker, I see,” Olivia laughs. “Is it the orange one?”

“Indeed it is.”

“I knew it!” There is a bounce to her step that Inigo finds terribly endearing. “It really is my favorite. The way it sparkles in the light.” She sighs dreamily. “We must dance with it together, Inigo.”

He feels the immediate blush on his face, the same that comes whenever anyone mentions his dancing. “Only after much practice,” he insists. “Lots and lots of practice. And if everyone kept their eyes closed when it happens, that would help, too.”

“You must give yourself more credit than that.” Olivia pouts. “You’re a wonderful dancer.”

He wants to protest, wants to tell her that he dances every day but he’s still nowhere near the dancer that she was, but his tongue flounders and his lips twitch oddly. A smile is so damnably hard to fight.

Before he can find what to say in return, Cordelia shouts from above, her pegasus rearing back with great beating wings.

An arrow shoots past and narrowly clips the pegasus’s wing.

“Archers!” she cries, brandishing her javelin. “In the trees!” Her javelin flies. There is a pained cry where it lands, and the archer falls from the towering height of the tree.

Chrom draws Falchion in one quick motion. “Shields out!” he commands. “Watch the trees, there may be others hiding—”

Another arrows flies from above and Frederick brings his arm up just in time to catch it with his shield. There is hardly a moment to react when a battle cry echoes through the air around them.

Soldiers, hidden in the surrounding foliage, burst from the dark with weapons drawn.

Inigo moves his shield to his left hand and draws his blade, meeting steel with it as soon as he does.

“Stay near me, Mother,” he grits out. He bashes his assailant with his shield, follows it with a stab of his sword.

When his opponent falls, he looks back to find Olivia brandishing her own thin blade, twirling it with a trained hand.

“You stay near me, too.” She smiles, somehow finding humor in such a dire situation, and Inigo cannot help but grin back before jumping into the fray.

Robin calls out orders over the din of the battle, and Inigo does his best to comply while dodging sword slashes and axe swings. At one point, Sully rides through the enemy line with an emboldened roar, her lance plowing through them and knocking them to the ground. Magic crackles through the air. Arrows fly. And through all of it, the rain does not cease. Inigo’s boots slip in the mud, and he has to blink furiously or shake his head to rid the rainwater from his eyes.

He halts another axe with his shield, gritting his teeth with the effort of holding his assailant back. But they don’t give up easily; they sneer at him and push forward, the grip on their axe not slackening in the slightest. Inigo feels his heels moving backwards through the soft earth, and he tries to readjust to more secure footing.

His foot catches on a tree root.

It’s already too late when he thinks to himself, _You fool,_ and falls backwards, rolling through the mud and down the slope behind.

“Inigo!” he hears someone cry, through the ungraceful clash of his armor and the rush of rain falling and the panicked thoughts in his head screaming _get up get up get up_ —

His armor feels heavy, weighed down with water and mud. Pushing himself up to kneel feels like it takes all the effort in the world, but he still needs to raise his shield and fight. His head is spinning from the tumble, and it isn’t at all helped by the rain turning everything blurry and grey.

A boot plants itself on his chest and shoves him back into the mud.

“This is the end,” the soldier says, forcing their boot into Inigo’s neck to keep him still.

Inigo’s fingers scrabble at their ankle, trying to force the boot off. It doesn’t budge. They raise their axe, and it glistens in the rain and pale light that slips through the canopy.

A sword point emerges from the soldier’s chest. They gasp, and the axe falls from their limp fingers. The sword disappears back out and they drop to their knees, then onto their side.

Inigo gasps at the sudden rush of air to his lungs. He coughs hard and painfully, his eyes watering.

“Inigo.”

He looks up.

Owain holds a hand out to him.

“Are you alright?”

After a moment to let sink in the fact that he’s still alive, Inigo seizes Owain’s hand and lets himself be hauled back onto his feet.

“Fine,” he croaks out, rubbing at his throat. “I nearly had them.”

“Of course you did.”

Owain holds something out to him. Covered in mud as it is, Inigo still recognizes his sword.

“I merely finished the job for you, is all,” Owain says with a twitch of a smile at his lips.

“Alright, alright,” Inigo sighs and he takes the sword. “I get it. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Not until this battle is finished and our foes lie defeated, then can I accept your gratitude. Though all Owain Dark desires is the thrill of the fight.”

“Goodness, do you ever cease your chattering?”

They don’t stay unnoticed for long. Soldiers wielding lances and swords barrel down the slope after them. Inigo knows this won’t be easy with their enemies on the high ground, but at least he won’t be facing them alone.

“For Ylisse!” Owain cries and runs to face them head on, and Inigo stares for one astonished moment before cursing and chasing after him.

The last time they fought side by side like this must have been back in their future timeline, out of necessity than any sense of compatibility as fighters. As their allies against Grima ran thin, there was no choice but to rely on each other. Inigo always saw Owain as clumsy and too focused on flashy moves and impressive showmanship without any real technique or skill, and he knew well that Owain held no admirable feelings towards him either. In the worst circumstances, even two people who disliked each other could work together, and Inigo figured it would always be that way for them.

“Radiant… _Dawn_!!!”

Owain lunges forward with his sword. His boot slips, and with a comical yelp he falls back onto his rear.

Inigo expected as much. When Owain falls, he moves forward in his place, cutting through the soldier that would have taken advantage of Owain’s misstep.

“I meant to do that!” Owain’s face is red beneath the grime on his cheeks.

“Of course you did. I merely finished the job for you.” It’s Inigo’s turn to hold his hand out with a winsome smile, and Owain grumbles as he takes it. “I believe we’re even now.”

Owain’s mouth pinches as if tasting something particularly sour, and the red has not yet faded from his face. His mouth pries open and he mumbles, “A hero must show humility when the situation demands it. As much as I strive to excel in my pursuit of justice, I must express my gratitude for you stepping in after my brief miscalculation.”

Inigo nearly laughs. “Was that so difficult?”

Owain still looks grumpy, and he parts his mouth to say something else but stops. His eyes widen.

He shoves Inigo to the ground.

“Hey—!”

As Inigo falls, he sees it.

A kunai landing in Owain’s right shoulder.

“Owain!”

“Behind you!” Owain clutches the bleeding shoulder of his sword arm.

Inigo scrambles to his feet, whips around, and narrowly catches a short katana with his shield. This soldier is different from the last—dressed in dark, light armor meant for stealth and speed. They move again, rushing for Inigo’s middle with the blade but he parries it with his own. He cannot move as quickly as they can, he knows this, but the speed of the fight gives him little time to think of a counterattack. He stops another strike with his shield. Parries again.

The moment they part, the soldier darts a hand to their belt and pulls out a second kunai. They rush for Inigo’s neck.

Another kunai flies from somewhere behind Inigo and into the soldier’s chest.

The impact makes them stumble backwards. Their body teeters and they fall back into the mud.

Inigo turns. Owain’s arm is outstretched, the kunai from his shoulder gone.

“You fool!” Inigo runs to him, drops to his knees beside where Owain sits on the ground, his face contorted in pain. “It’s going to bleed worse!”

“It seems we are no longer even,” is all Owain says while trying to turn his grimace into a smug smile.

“Say that after I drag you to the med tent after all this,” Inigo huffs. “Can you stand?”

He wraps his arm around Owain’s elbow, tugging him until he’s on his feet.

“Of course I can,” Owain says and stumbles heavily into Inigo.

“Whoa, hey.” Inigo grabs him by his good shoulder. “Owain?”

“I…” Owain grips his head, squeezes his eyes shut.

“Are you injured somewhere else? Did you hit your head?”

Owain looks at him with an unfocused gaze. “I think… something’s wrong...” he slurs. His eyes slide shut again.

He starts falling backwards and Inigo barely manages to catch him in his arms.

“Owain!”

His body is limp, his head lolling against Inigo’s arm. He doesn’t respond to Inigo’s voice. Inigo touches his face and despite the cold of the rain and mud, he can feel the feverish temperature of Owain’s skin.

He remembers the dead soldier lying a few feet away. After setting Owain gently on the ground, he crawls over to the body and the abandoned kunai that came much too close to killing him. He picks it up carefully by the very tip of the handle. The blade is filthy after falling in the dirt, but he can see the gleam of an inky substance wiped over the edges. He pulls the glove off one of his hands and drops the kunai inside it and sticks it in his belt.

Owain needs aid. Now.

“Help!” He runs back to Owain. With much struggle, he hoists Owain over his shoulder and heaves him up. He calls again, “I need a healer!”

The sounds of battle have died down and Inigo prays their allies hear him through the pounding of the rain. Climbing back up the slope is torturous with the slippery mud and Owain’s weight, but he pushes through the burn in his legs and arms. Gods give him the strength to just make it over this hill. He can’t—he won’t—let Owain die here.

“I owe you now, remember?” he mutters, breathing heavily. “So if you die, I’ll have to live the rest of my life with that debt and I’ll curse you forever.”

Owain says nothing, and Inigo swallows against the concern in his throat and pushes onward.

He nears the top of the slope now, and he tries to call out one more time, “Help!” His foot slips and he drops down to a knee to stop himself from toppling over entirely. Frustration fills him, and anger, and—when he looks at Owain’s pained and feverish face—fear.

“Please,” he whispers, his eyes pressed closed to fight the burn he feels at their edges. When he opens them again, he rises up on trembling legs, and crosses the final few feet over the top.

“They’re over here!”

Frederick. It’s Frederick’s voice. He sees Olivia’s pink hair too, and Brady with his staff. Thank the Gods. They run to him, past the bodies littering the ground and over twisting tree roots. Frederick immediately takes Owain, and a freakish part of Inigo almost tries to snatch him back before he realizes he’s only trying to help.

“What happened?” Frederick’s voice is brisk but his expression concerned.

“Wounded in the shoulder.”

“Get him to the others, I’ll do what I can now.” Brady readies his staff.

“Brady.” Inigo holds out the kunai, still bundled in his glove. “I think it’s poisoned.”

Brady takes it, and his already grim expression turns even more severe. He says, “Get him to the others, _now_ , and let’s get a med tent set up.”

“This is not an ideal place to make camp,” Frederick says, though he begins to hurry back anyway.

“Ain’t got much choice, do we? He’ll die if we don’t treat him now.”

“I’ll inform Chrom at once.”

Inigo follows behind them, running despite the exhaustion wracking his body. When they reach the others, everything happens in a blur. Brady runs to Miriel and shows her the kunai, asks her some hushed questions to which she begins answering with a long and detailed explanation while pulling herbs from the convoy. A med tent is quickly erected and Owain, along with the other wounded and all of their healers, disappears within it. Inigo doesn’t realize he’s making to follow him inside until the tent flap closes in front of him and he’s reaching out to pull it aside.

Olivia’s hand touches his arm, stopping him.

“Inigo,” she says, with a sad tone of voice that snaps Inigo back to his senses.

“Mother.” He doesn’t know what to say. The thoughts in his head run too quick, too jumbled. “I—”

She pulls him into a hug.

Inigo freezes, his hands hovering over her back uncertainly.

“He will be alright,” she says.

He sags in her arms and drops his forehead onto her shoulder, his fingers curling in the soft waves of her long hair.

“I’m just glad you’re okay.” Olivia pulls away just enough to cup Inigo’s cheeks with her hands and examine his face. “You aren’t injured anywhere, are you?”

“Just bruised, I think. And I could use a long, long rest. But yes, I’m fine.”

“Good. You gave me a great scare, you know. It was as if you disappeared.”

Inigo scratches his cheek. “Er, disappeared down a slope, actually.”

“That explains the mud, then.”

Olivia gives an amused smile as she wipes away a smudge of dirt on his cheek with her thumb.

“They’re doing all they can now,” she says. “The best thing you can do is rest and come see Owain when he’s better. I’m certain he’ll be glad for the company.”

“Surely he’d prefer someone else?” Inigo says more to himself than to her, but Olivia just pushes him along.

He turns back to look one more time at the med tent, at the swaying flaps that betray little of what is happening within. The unsettled feeling in his stomach won’t abate and he doesn’t know what to do about it. So he turns away, walks with Olivia to where the others are pitching tents, and waits.

* * *

_Drip._

_Drip._

Something wet lands on Inigo’s cheek.

_Drip._

His eyes blink open. It takes a moment for his vision to focus, light and darkness blurring then sharpening into legible shapes. A campfire burns a few meters away with people gathered around it. Horses are tethered nearby. The sky over the trees is dark and the moon has returned, looming high.

 _Drip._ He looks up, and another drop of water hits him, this time on his forehead. Though the weather has cleared, the last vestiges of rainwater still fall from the leaves above. A yawn rises out of him, making him squeeze his eyes shut, and when he blinks them open Cynthia is right in his face.

“By the Gods!”

Inigo jumps, slamming into the tree behind him.

Cynthia cackles.

“I’ve been working on my stealth! Pretty good, huh?”

He rubs at his sore shoulder. “You certainly snuck up on me.”

“You’re the one who let your guard down,” she singsongs, wagging a finger at him.

With a sigh, Inigo leans back into the tree and tilts his head back. “I suppose you’re right.”

“You were sleeping for a while. You almost missed dinner.” She thrusts a bowl into his hands, the stew inside still warm from the pot. “Lucky for you, nothing ever slips past me!”

Inigo blinks, the warmth of the bowl seeping into his cold fingers. There are potatoes, carrots, other roots and vegetables in a thick potage. His stomach gives a hungry gurgle.

He relaxes, and a tired smile pulls at his lips. “Thank you, Cynthia.” He picks up the spoon resting against the bowl’s lip.

Cynthia waves a hand. “All in a day’s work for a hero. Besides, you must be tired. I heard you fell down a hill.”

He hears this just as a particularly hot piece of potato scalds his tongue, and he grimaces both in embarrassment and pain. “Ah. I do hope the whole camp isn’t talking about it.”

“Well, not the _whole_ camp. Maybe half?”

“Wonderful.”

“Anyway, Owain told Brady about it first. Then Brady told Kjelle who told Severa who—”

Inigo almost drops his spoon.

“Wait, Owain? He’s awake?”

“Yeah, I think he woke up like an hour ago?”

He jumps to his feet, stew sloshing in his hands.

Cynthia’s hands shoot out to help steady the bowl. “Whoa! Careful!”

“Sorry. I need to speak to him.” He sets the bowl back down by his seat.

“You don’t have to run or anything, okay, he’s not going anywhere. Brady told him to stay in bed for the rest of the night; you can imagine how bored he is right now.”

“Then I’d better lighten his evening with my company,” he says with a wink, despite the urgency clawing at his insides. The memory of Owain bleeding, unconscious, and at the brink of death still plagues him, hovering in his mind. Even if Cynthia says he’s awake, Inigo needs to see for himself.

“I’d love to see his face if he heard you say that.” Cynthia laughs. “Anyway, med tent’s open if you wanna go see him.”

“I shall.”

“Oh, wait!”

Inigo stops, turns to her.

Cynthia pulls something out from her pack. A book, bound together haphazardly with twine. She holds it out to him.

“Like I said, he’s probably bored to death.”

Inigo takes it, thumb rubbing over the words _Manual of Justice_ scribbled on the cover.

He salutes Cynthia with the book—to which she answers with a return salute and a grin—and strides quickly to the med tent.

There is a lantern burning inside it, yellow light peeking through the space between the two flaps at its entrance. When Inigo reaches it, his feet freeze. He stands outside it uncertainly, the assuredness that brought him here dissipating like smoke. He tosses the Manual of Justice between his hands, trying to channel all his willpower into the soles of his feet but still unable to make them move.

What should he say? Despite everything, he’s still no good at talking when it really matters.

“Thank you for saving my life,” he practices aloud, just a mutter to himself as he paces outside the tent. “Of course, I saved yours in return right after. Then you went and pushed me to the ground—very rudely, I might add—and took a kunai to the shoulder for all your trouble. Noble of you, but wholly unnecessary. I do have a shield, you know. No need for you to act like one for me.”

He stops, frowning at the sky. A sigh bursts out of him.

“Enough of this nonsense,” he says and reaches for the tent flap.

Someone emerges from it at precisely the same moment.

He jumps back. “Ah, pardon me—”

“Oh! Inigo.”

He blinks at Lissa.

There is tiredness around her eyes, an exhaustion he frequently sees among the healers these days, and he knows she must have gone through a particular ordeal today. But Princess Lissa is always a bright beacon among their ranks, and even now she finds the strength for a smile.

“Are you okay? Do you need a healer?” She tilts her head in concern, pale hair glowing in the moonlight, the exact same shade as Owain’s.

“No, no, I’m quite alright.” Inigo waves a hand. “I just, um. Well…”

Lissa waits patiently as he flounders.

“Er, that is—” He sucks in a steadying breath. “How is Owain?”

Her smile takes on an amused tilt. “He’s doing just fine.”

“Is that so? I’m glad to hear it.”

“He was asleep for a while but he’s awake now, so you can go see him if you’d like.”

“Ah, I merely wanted to ask for an update on his condition, surely I should let him rest, or—”

“He’s had enough of resting, he said.” She giggles. “Seeing a friend would be the best thing for him right now, I think. Otherwise he’ll find some way to entertain himself that involves something he shouldn’t be doing while he’s injured, like swinging a sword around.”

“He does enjoy doing that,” he mutters without thinking.

Lissa laughs more openly at that, despite the mortification Inigo feels at teasing her own son in front of her. But her shoulders seem more relaxed, the tightness in her expression gone with the chime of her laughter.

“Thank you, Inigo,” she says, smiling brightly at him.

He stares at her in confusion, then blurts out, “Why?”

He’s the last person she should thank. It’s his fault Owain got injured in the first place; just when he’d already dragged Owain into his mess, he wasn’t fast enough or aware enough of his own surroundings to protect himself and instead needed Owain to do it for him. If he wasn’t so focused on evening the score, on showing off, perhaps he would be in that tent right now instead of Owain. It’s what should have happened. It’s what he wishes happened.

It hurts all at once, the guilt. Aching somewhere deep in the cavity of his chest. He’s never done well with people giving their lives to protect him, and despite all their difficulties in the past, it turns out it isn’t any easier when it’s Owain.

A touch on his arm pulls him out of his thoughts, and he realizes it’s Lissa’s hand.

“You brought him back to us,” she says. “And you’re here now. Thank you.”

Words rise to his lips. Words of protest, something in the shape of _I’m sorry_. But before he can say anything, Lissa smiles at him once more and walks away towards the rest of the camp.

Inigo watches her go and, despite the guilt that still eats away at him, the knot in his stomach eases, if only slightly. Perhaps later he will find a chance to talk to her properly about what happened. For now, he turns back to the tent, pushes aside the flap, and steps inside.

The sharp smell of herbs hits him first, almost stinging his nose in its pungency. Warm lamplight illuminates the cots lined against the walls of the tent, a few sleeping bodies occupying them. There are crates of supplies in one corner, shelves full of dried herbs and glass bottles of all colors and shapes.

And in one cot, with a lamp pulled close to help see better, Owain scribbles furiously on a few loose sheets of paper, as if there are ideas in his head that demand being written right this instant.

He does not look up when Inigo enters, and Inigo uses the opportunity to glance over him. Owain wears a robe, loose at the top where Inigo can spy bandages winding around his chest and wounded shoulder. But he is whole, and that gives Inigo a small feeling that he distantly realizes is comfort. He walks further in towards Owain’s cot.

“About time you showed up,” Owain says without looking up from writing.

Inigo halts mid-step. Wryly, he says, “I see your senses are as sharp as ever.”

“They have to be.”

Owain finally looks at him, his gaze piercingly clear as it meets Inigo’s.

“Surely my enemies will seek to target me in this rare moment of vulnerability. Constant vigilance is a necessity for arbiters of justice such as myself.”

A beat of stunned silence. Then Inigo laughs. Not a sharp, mocking one like he used to do so often at Owain’s speeches, but a relieved one, one that floats easily and warmly from his chest.

Owain is alright after all.

“I see you’ve found something to occupy yourself with,” Inigo says, walking closer and pulling a chair over to Owain’s bedside.

“Not much else to do.” Owain taps the tip of his quill against the top page where Inigo finds scribbles in the form of weapon names and descriptions. “I’m on strict bedrest until tomorrow.”

“Perhaps you’d like some reading, then?”

Inigo brandishes the Manual of Justice. Owain’s eyes widen, his hands shooting out to grab it.

“Did you dig through my belongings for this?” he demands, to which Inigo raises his hands innocently.

“Cynthia gave it to me, she thought you might be bored.”

Owain stares down at it, flipping through the pages. The corners of his mouth twitch upwards, restraining a smile.

“Thanks,” he says.

Inigo nods, leaning back in his seat. He looks at Owain’s bandages again. “… Does it hurt?”

Owain shifts his shoulder, a contemplative look on his face. “Not so much anymore. It’s merely a scratch.”

“Didn’t look like a mere scratch at the time. You were completely out of it.”

“Getting poisoned isn’t fun, I must admit.” His shoulder seems to pain him and he winces. “I may not have survived were it not for you.”

Inigo smiles humorlessly. “I’m the one in your debt. You saved me twice. Your injury was my fault.”

“But you saved me twice as well.” Confusion colors Owain’s face, in the way he tilts his head and furrows his brow.

“Yet you’re the one here in the med tent. You didn’t have to take that blade, you know.”

“It was my choice.” Conviction burns in Owain’s eyes. “I couldn’t just let you die.”

Inigo stares at him, some unplaceable emotion catching in his throat. Perhaps that is all it comes down to, in the end.

When he smiles this time, it’s genuine.

He says, “Well, I will strive to make sure you needn’t make such a decision again. Maybe you can teach me a thing or two about those sharp senses of yours.”

“Really?” Owain’s eyes light up. “I actually have a special training regimen that I wrote down in the manual. Hang on.” He flips through the pages so quickly Inigo fears the entire book may fall apart from its pitiful binding. “Here. The training starts with—and this is _essential_ —sitting under a waterfall.”

“Dear Gods.”

“And it gets even tougher after that!”

Inigo settles in his seat to listen.

He doesn’t know exactly how long he spends sitting by Owain’s bedside, listening to his long explanations of the contents of his book, but he finds himself listening more closely and asking more sincerely interested questions than he ever expected to. Owain even makes him laugh a few times, real laughs, and Inigo makes him laugh in return. It’s the most camaraderie they have ever shown one another before, and it only took the two of them nearly dying several times in succession to get this far.

From inside the tent, Inigo doesn’t realize how late it is until a healer enters and politely clears her throat for their attention.

“Pardon me, but the hour is late and I believe the patient needs his rest, sir,” she says.

“Oh, of course.” Inigo rises from his chair.

Owain looks like he wants to protest, and Inigo knows there is much more he wants to say about voice exercises to ensure optimal vocalizations of battle cries, but he also knows that Owain needs to sleep.

To appease him, Inigo says, “Perhaps I can find time during my busy schedule for another lesson tomorrow.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure you’re very busy getting rejected by every girl in camp.” Owain rolls his eyes. “You’d better bring a quill and paper next time. These lessons end with a quiz, you know.”

“Who are you, Laurent?” Inigo heads for the exit, waving a hand lazily in goodbye. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

He glances back before he leaves and sees Owain turn his face the other way, but not far enough to hide the curve of his grin.

He feels a smile on his own face as he pushes through the tent flaps and into the night air, feeling lighter than he has all day.

* * *

The days pass on.

Even after the defeat of Walhart, their journey stretches far ahead, especially with the threat of Grima’s return looming ever darker on the horizon. Basilio’s absence plagues them as a vast chasm in their ranks, and the journey feels much quieter without his booming voice and commanding presence. Still, they must keep going. Somewhere out there lies the final gemstone, and that brings an urgency to their steps that carries them back through the Valmese countryside, over the sea and onto the familiar soil of Ylisse.

On their march they still pass by villages in need of aid, whether from bandits or hordes of Risen, and the Shepherds would be remiss not to stop and lend their strength to those who cannot defend themselves.

“Wyvern riders!” Robin calls out as dark, winged shapes approach them during a tangle with Risen at a village outside Ylisstol. “Archers, ready!”

Inigo drives his blade through the axeman in front of him, and it is dyed from tip to middle with dark blood when he draws it back out. He wrinkles his nose, but there is no time to wipe it clean before the riders descend. A few of them fall from the sky with arrows from Noire and Virion.

He runs to where Owain is fending off two lancers, slicing through one then turning to the other. Inigo steps in, cleanly parries the lance and strikes at the opening it gives him.

“Need a hand?” he says to Owain.

“There you are stealing my moments again.” Owain puts on an annoyed expression, but Inigo can see the gleam in his eyes.

“Not intentional, I swear.” Inigo smiles, twirling his blade. “Now let’s take care of the wyvern approaching behind you, hm?”

Owain spins around, sword in hand, and Inigo readies himself next to him. The wyvern rider swoops in, brandishing an axe, but Inigo quickly steps out of the way of its swing and ducks beneath the wyvern’s claws.

The wyvern turns in the air, ready to swoop in again. This time, Owain and Inigo move as one. As it hurtles towards them, they raise their swords, aiming for the wyvern’s vulnerable underbelly.

Their blades slice through. Inigo feels something hot splatter his face. The creature screeches, crashing to the ground, its rider tumbling from its back.

Inigo looks at Owain and finds him covered in wyvern blood.

“Oh dear.” He drags a sleeve against his own cheek and unsurprisingly finds blood on himself as well, though he’s certain it’s far less than what coats Owain’s face now.

Owain is silent, mouth pressed into a thin line, looking very much like he’s suppressing the urge to wretch.

“Do you require a handkerchief?” Inigo struggles against a laugh.

“I require a lake,” Owain grits out. He wipes a hand over his face which only worsens the mess, and the laugh is getting harder and harder for Inigo to hold back. “And an entire bar of soap.”

The last of the wyvern riders—and thus the last of the Risen horde—is taken care of by their archers. The battle is over. Chrom calls for the Shepherds to regroup at the village gate.

“Come,” Inigo says. “Perhaps a dear innkeeper will be kind enough to grant us a bath.”

There is no inn, as it turns out. Inigo should have realized they’ve so little luck that even a bath would be too much to hope, though he is mostly disappointed on Owain’s behalf. It’s getting a little difficult to be near him with the stench of wyvern blood so pungent on his clothes.

“There’s a river close by,” Cynthia informs them after a quick scout of the area on her pegasus while Chrom and Robin speak to the village leaders.

“Thank the Gods. I’m off to search for a bar of soap.” Owain begins to stomp off.

“Wait!” she calls out to him. “You don’t even know where the river is!”

Inigo starts to laugh, but is interrupted by someone politely clearing their throat behind him.

“Pardon me, sirs…”

He turns around, Owain and Cynthia along with him.

A village girl has approached them, dressed in simple clothes and her hair plaited neatly over her shoulder. She is blushing and staring at the ground shyly, and Inigo notices a handkerchief dangling between her clasped hands.

“Can we help you, milady?” Inigo says, charm coming to his voice instinctively. He can feel Cynthia rolling her eyes behind him.

“Ah—” Her blush deepens and her shoulders hunch. “I simply wanted to thank you for protecting our village.”

“No need to thank us.” Inigo tilts his head in the way he knows makes his hair glint in the sunlight, and puts on his most winsome smile. “We live to protect.”

“Owain Dark would never leave anyone behind!” Owain steps forward, stretching his hand over his face like he always does, even when he’s filthy. “You need only call, and I shall fight any manner of evil that threatens the good people of this world. That includes you and your village, my fair maiden.”

The girl stares at him with wide eyes, something like enchantment sparkling within them. She abruptly bows at the waist and holds her handkerchief out to Owain.

“A-A token of my gratitude!” she squeaks, her face entirely red now. She speaks at the ground rather than his face. “I-If it pleases you, sir.”

Owain blinks at it while Inigo gapes in disbelief. Cynthia looks like she’s nearing combustion from holding her laugh in.

“I—of course,” Owain says, flustered, and takes the handkerchief from her outstretched hands. “Thank you.”

The girl stands up straight, curtsies clumsily then hurries away.

There is a moment of silence, then Inigo blurts, “This is completely unfair.”

Cynthia finally laughs, loud and long and completely unnecessary in Inigo’s frank opinion.

“You’re covered in blood and worse and yet she gave her handkerchief to _you_ ,” he laments.

“You’re not looking so clean yourself right now, you know!” Owain glares, still pinching the handkerchief between his thumb and forefinger. “Anyway, it’s just a hanky.” He rubs the fine cloth over his face, dirtying it.

“What are you doing?! You’ve ruined it!”

“What else is a handkerchief for?!”

Cynthia wipes a tear from her eye, having finally calmed down from her laughing. “Ah, you two are a riot.”

Inigo and Owain round on her with matching scowls when Kjelle calls out for them to quit goofing off and help set up camp, and they trudge over to where tents are being pulled out of the convoy.

They don’t actually get the chance to visit the river until the sun has dropped below the horizon and the first stars begin to blink into the purple dusk sky. By then all the tents are pitched and the campfires lit, so Inigo and Owain tread quickly to the edge of camp where the river flows. It reminds Inigo a little of their meeting so many weeks ago, back when he and Owain hardly spoke to one another.

Now he watches idly as Owain rolls his pants up to his knees and wades into the water, pulling his shirt off as he does which is… not exactly where Inigo pictured their friendship would take them but still progress, in some strange way. He follows Owain in.

“Gah, it’s freezing!” He nearly jumps back out.

Owain has the gall to laugh at him. “It’s hardly that cold.”

“Pardon me for not being as full of hot air as you.” Inigo gasps when Owain splashes him with a blast of river water. “Hey!”

“What was that again?” Owain grins, hands still lingering in the water as if to splash him again.

Inigo strikes first. Owain sputters when he gets a mouthful of water, but Inigo hardly gets a moment to revel in it when Owain splashes him in turn. The ensuing battle only lasts a few minutes, but it leaves both of them panting and dripping wet after, sitting at the river’s edge and letting the water rush over their legs. At least they’re clean now.

Owain says thoughtfully, “Ylisstol is not far now, is it?”

Inigo shakes his head, feels water drip from the tips of his damp hair when he does, and looks out to the horizon. “About half a day’s march, I’d wager.”

“That much closer to the end of all this.” Owain tosses a stone into the river, watches it skim the surface before sinking. “Surely Frederick will find the final gemstone soon.”

“Then there only lies the Awakening, then Grima himself.” Inigo leans back on his hands and stares up at the night sky. Back then, the sky was always dark. He hardly knew what the stars looked like.

Owain is quiet. Then he says, “It’ll be different this time. We’re stronger now than before.”

Inigo huffs amusedly, hearing the echo of the words he told Owain so long ago.

“Say,” he says, tilting his head towards Owain, “have you given any thought to what you’ll do after?”

“Huh?”

“After Grima is defeated. When we don’t have to fight this war anymore.”

They never dared to ask such a question back in their time. It was simply unimaginable—a future without Grima, without constantly looking over their shoulders and wondering when the people around them would disappear, as they always do, one by one. It seems almost too much to hope now. Inigo wonders if it is the same for Owain.

“Of course,” Owain says simply. “I strive to be a knight in Chrom’s court, if he would have me.”

Inigo raises an eyebrow. “Of course he would, Owain, you’re royalty.”

Owain flushes. “I know that! But I would gain knighthood through my own merit, not just because of my blood. It’s an honor that should be earned.”

Inigo scoffs. “They would be a fool not to have you.”

Owain watches him warily, as if awaiting a punchline. Inigo can’t blame him, with all the barbs he’s spat his way in the past.

“You’re already a fine knight,” he says. “And after this is over, no doubt you’ll be a great one.”

Owain is quiet again, staring in a way that makes Inigo feel he has said too much. This is what he gets for speaking honestly about his feelings. He knows emotional openness is always a mistake, yet here he is, failing again to heed his own advice.

But then Owain smiles—at first small and wavering then turning wider, brighter, happiness spilling out of him.

“And what about you?” Owain’s eyes sparkle with the reflection of moonlight off the water. “What do you plan to do?”

His stock answer comes immediately to mind. “Ah, I’m afraid that’s a secret that stays with me.”

“What?! I told you my plans, it’s only fair you tell me yours.”

“I agreed to no such thing.”

Owain pouts. “What’s the matter? Is it embarrassing?”

“No.”

“Then tell me.”

“I’d really rather not.”

“Come on, Inigo, are we not friends?”

Inigo forces himself to look away from Owain’s imploring face. Damn it all. He’s too weak for this.

He sighs. “Of course we are.” Something twinges within his chest when he sees the relief in Owain’s eyes. “Alright. It actually is embarrassing.”

“I’m sure it isn—”

“I want to be a dancer.”

He’s known it for so long, but to say it out loud is something he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to. He’s played out possible reactions in his head plenty of times: ridicule, scorn, laughs, and the expectation to give up his dreams and pick up a sword instead. Olivia didn’t react that way, but she’s his mother. Inigo feels anxiety twist inside his stomach as he watches Owain.

Owain’s mouth shuts. Opens again. Shuts. “Oh.”

“If you wish to laugh, feel free to do so now.”

“No!” Owain says quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Inigo crosses his arms, impatient and a little cold as the breeze turns chilly. “Then what?”

“I just meant—I’ve never seen you dance before. But I guess it’s not all that surprising. Olivia is a dancer.”

“Yes, she is. The best dancer I know, in fact, so once all this is over and I can have a free moment to practice without hiding in the middle of the woods, I can finally learn from her properly.”

Owain nods slowly as he listens. “You practice in the middle of the woods?”

“Don’t you get any ideas about spying.” Inigo points a finger warningly, panic flaring in his chest. It’s difficult enough to know that people have seen him before, whether by accident or not. He doesn’t think he could face Owain if he ever saw.

“I won’t! I understand the sacredness of practicing in solitude.”

“I think this is a little different from your own weird training sessions,” he mutters.

“But,” Owain barrels on, “practice in front of an audience is beneficial to a dancer, I’m sure.”

“Maybe, but I’m—I’m not—” Inigo exhales harshly, dragging his fingers through his wet hair. His voice is smaller when he admits, “I’m not… brave enough. I need much, much more practice before I can dance in front of anyone.”

“What do you have to fear?” Owain moves closer, drops both his hands onto Inigo’s shoulders as he says with conviction, “I’m sure you dance beautifully!”

It embarrasses Inigo to hear it but Owain’s face contains no mockery or humor, only the same steadfast sincerity he always bears. And above the instinct to twist away in self-consciousness in the manner he always does when people talk about his dancing, he can’t help but find it encouraging to hear it from Owain. Warmth seeps into his skin through Owain’s palms, and in the chill air Inigo nearly leans into it. Despite the muted colors of the night, he sees Owain so clearly: his green eyes, the bow of his lips, the faintest dimples on his cheeks from his smile. He is very close.

He is _very_ close. And, Inigo realizes with sudden gut-wrenching clarity, he is half-naked. He prays to every God he knows that Owain cannot see the blush rising to his face.

“Anyway!” Inigo says too loudly then clears his throat. “Shall we go back?”

He pushes himself onto his feet and hurries away before Owain can answer, though he hears the crunch of sand underfoot following behind him. His spare clothes lie further away on the grass and as he reaches for them, he shivers and curses his mistake of not bringing a coat.

“Are you cold?” Owain asks, and Inigo’s nerves are so frayed he nearly jumps at the sound of his voice. He focuses on pulling a tunic over his head and avoids looking at him, too afraid of where his eyes will drift if he looks at Owain again.

He freezes when something drapes over him, a clean robe made of yellow cloth, furred at the collar and much warmer than any of the clothes he brought with him. His heart jumps into his throat.

Inigo looks now, because he has to, and Owain is still smiling that damnable smile that is so suddenly and incomprehensibly charming, and everything about Inigo’s world feels like it’s spinning out of control.

He says, in a voice much calmer than he feels inside, “I assure you, I can make it to my tent without freezing to death.”

Owain waves a hand in the middle of tugging on a boot. “Just return it later.”

He opens his mouth to insist again that he’s fine, but it really is cold out and if Owain insists then Inigo is far too tired dealing with his emotions to argue with him.

They walk back to camp together, a kind of peaceful silence between them even if Inigo’s mind races with thoughts too loud to comprehend. But he curls his fingers into the warmth of Owain’s robe, and if he were feeling brave, he would smile a little at the small feeling that blooms in his chest.

But he is not brave. When he returns to his tent, he hands the robe back like Owain said. He bids him good night with a wave of his hand and retreats inside, drops onto his bedroll and stares up at the ceiling. Though the night is still early, he doesn’t feel like doing much else. So he rolls over onto his side, closes his eyes, feels his heart beat a rhythm he has only understood distantly before, but now feels so presently real it’s almost unbearable. Sleep doesn’t come for a long time, and Inigo spends much of the night waiting and wondering and—wanting.

* * *

The only course of action is to keep moving forward, revelations about his feelings besides. Especially after Grima emerges into existence like the dark behemoth of their nightmares.

Despair infects their ranks like a virus, weakening their resolve. Chrom’s optimism is the only thing that holds them together long enough to reach Mount Prism and perform the Awakening, and that small, fledgling hope is all they cling to as they journey to Origin Peak where Grima awaits them for the final time.

In the face of all this, Inigo’s personal problems feel trifling at best and self-absorbed at worst. The last thing he wants to do is risk making things awkward between him and Owain, not when they need to work together effectively, especially on the battlefield. He can navigate this maturely. He’ll treat Owain like he always does: not teasing him any more, or any less, than usual and still fighting alongside him.

On the western coast of Ferox, Inigo watches Owain march ahead of him, conversing with Cynthia and Kjelle in energetic tones. From this angle, he only catches Owain’s profile, watches the way he smiles and gestures with his hands as he speaks. Somehow still so bright even in the middle of so much despair. It would be exhausting if Inigo wasn’t cursedly charmed by it all. He looks away, grimacing at himself for such thoughts.

Olivia pokes him in the forehead and he yelps in surprise.

“You’re looking rather grumpy,” she points out.

“We’re all feeling a little haggard these days, Mother.” He rubs at his forehead, then pulls a smile onto his face. “But I assure you, any grumpiness you see is only temporary.”

She squints at him which is something he hasn’t been on the receiving end of since he was a child. He almost starts to sweat under her scrutiny, and he barely holds back a sigh of relief when she finally drops it.

“You can’t always fool me,” she says pointedly. “I understand that I’m not really the one who raised you and that we haven’t been together very long, but I’ve come to know you a lot better. And I know that despite all your smiles, you can’t keep it up all the time. No human being can.”

“But I have to try, don’t I?” The smile is faltering, Inigo can feel it in the corners of his mouth, but he pushes through. “It’s what I do.”

“But you needn’t go through it alone.” Olivia loops her arm through his and leans in until their shoulders bump. “Smiles or not, what’s most important is your hope.”

The sky is dark with Grima’s shadow looming over them all. He has very little hope to spare. “It can’t always be that simple.”

Olivia pats him on the hand. “It’ll get you pretty far.”

Musing over her words, he turns his gaze to Owain again.

Owain is looking back.

Inigo freezes when their eyes meet, but Owain only gives him a smile and a small wave of his hand. Inigo wonders if he should wave back, but then he feels foolish for even thinking it and glances away. He doesn’t know how Owain reacts because when he looks back, he has already returned to his conversation with Kjelle. Inigo exhales, his heartbeat beating frantically like it has done so often these days.

He suddenly remembers Olivia right beside him, watching.

When she speaks, she whispers like a secret. “It’s alright, you know.”

He groans. “Mother…”

“It is!”

“I’m really not ready to have this conversation right now.”

“I noticed you’ve been spending a lot of time together…”

“Please.”

“… and that you’ve come to be such close friends—”

“And it will stay that way.”

Olivia pouts unhappily. “ _Inigo_.”

“It’s true.”

“You’re giving up already?”

“That’s not it,” he snaps.

Olivia stares at him in surprise. He regrets it immediately.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, no. It’s alright.”

“Mother…”

“I just—” Olivia starts, squeezing Inigo’s arm. “I just thought you were happier. All I ever want is for you to be happy.”

“I know. I’m fine, honestly. At least I will be once all this is over.”

She doesn’t look entirely convinced, but it’s not really a lie. Inigo is fine. Whether or not Owain knows how he feels doesn’t matter. The more important thing is for them to make it through tomorrow, and to do that, they must focus on the battle ahead. It would be selfish of him to take away the comfort and assurance of their friendship from Owain. He isn’t ready to explain all this to Olivia now, but he hopes she understands regardless.

“Alright,” she relents. “But remember, you have people who care about you. Don’t be afraid to reach out if ever you need to.”

“You have my word,” he says as Port Ferox rises before them.

The sun hovers low on the cusp of evening as they make camp just outside the port, so Chrom decides they’ll sail for Origin Peak at dawn. For now, they are free to spend the evening as they wish, though they are advised to rest well and prepare for tomorrow as much as possible.

Inigo isn’t sure what to do. On less bleak nights, he might visit the local tavern or walk the town with a friend. Most days they make camp in the middle of the wilderness, so the opportunity to visit a town is one he rarely passes by. But now he feels exhausted, wrung out from recent events. Perhaps he’ll just sharpen his sword and call it an early night. He sits outside his tent and begins digging in his pack for a whetstone.

“Where is the blasted thing?” he mutters, digging his arm further in. He truly needs to organize it.

“Inigo!” someone says right behind him, and Inigo bites back a curse as his heart leaps into his throat. He whips around.

Owain is grinning, not looking guilty at all about sneaking up on him.

“I could have drawn my sword at you, you fool!”

“Yet you didn’t! You sensed it was a comrade behind you instead of an enemy. It seems our training sessions are working after all.”

Inigo sighs and closes his pack. “What is it you want, Owain? I’ve things to do.”

A brown paper bag is shoved into his face. He blinks at it.

“Um?”

“A gift!” Seeing that Inigo won’t do it, Owain opens the bag and shows him the contents. “I went into town and purchased them.”

Inside the bag are pastries, simple rolls dusted with sugar, some kind of fruit filling spilling out the edges. Their sweet scent fills his nose. It’s been long since Inigo’s had anything like this.

“Oh.” He feels his annoyance disappear. “Why, thank you, Owain.” He reaches for one.

Owain snatches the bag away. “Wait!”

The annoyance rushes in again. “What?”

“Not here.” Owain curls his free hand around Inigo’s wrist, and Inigo feels his heart begin beating rapidly again, for reasons other than Owain’s scare from earlier. “Come, I’ve something else to show you.”

Perhaps it’s his confusion that makes him compliant, or the mere fact that Owain is taking the desserts with him, but Inigo lets himself be pulled along and tries to will his heart rate back to normal even as his breaths quicken at the touch of Owain’s hand. Owain leads him away from camp, up a tall, tree-covered hill that has the muscles in Inigo’s legs burning at the climb.

“Where exactly are you taking me?”

“Just keep going.” Owain is still holding him by the wrist, and he looks over his shoulder with a grin that Inigo wishes he still found irritating.

They reach the top together. Inigo stops and stares.

“Here we are.” Owain gestures outwards. “Surely such a wondrous sight will ease the burden on your spirit.”

The hill looks out west towards the ocean that stretches between here and Valm. Dark clouds still loom in the air but the light of the setting sun shines through the gaps, casting its colors on the waters below. He can see Port Ferox further along the coast, boats returning home and piers jutting out from the harbor. Lights are beginning to glow in distant windows.

Owain elbows him lightly. “Worth the walk?”

Inigo hums thoughtfully, touching a finger to his chin. “Hm. I suppose so.” But he smiles after and Owain smiles back.

“Now, as promised.” Owain holds out the bag.

Inigo takes it and sits on the grass, the sunset in front of him. “How did you even find this place?”

“I’ve been here. Before.”

“Ah. Under equally dire circumstances, I’m sure.”

Owain shrugs a shoulder and pulls a pastry from the bag after Inigo. “It looked much like this back then. The dark clouds, Grima flying somewhere out there. But you know what? I feel much more hopeful now than I did back then.”

“Good. Hold on to that tomorrow.”

Owain chews a bite, swallows. Then, “What about you?”

Inigo raises an eyebrow at him, his fingers sticky with sugar. “What about me?”

“You seemed optimistic before. That night we talked about our plans for the future, you remember.”

Of course he does, he’s been grappling with the aftermath of that night ever since. But all he says now is, “Yes.”

“But lately it feels like…” Owain scratches the back of his head, struggling to find the words. “Well, like something’s changed.”

Inigo carefully keeps his expression neutral even as his heart makes a guilty thump.

“Is that what all this is about?” He gestures around them.

Owain is sheepish, plucking at the grass instead of looking at Inigo directly. “It wasn’t something I planned or anything, I just thought…” Now he looks up, and his face is so earnest it takes Inigo aback. “I just wanted you to know that you can always speak to me, if it helps. About anything.”

The thing is, Inigo wants to. Words ache behind his teeth, and he knows that Owain means what he said. But he’s certain the last thing Owain expects in this moment is for Inigo to admit he is more than a little in love with him, and has been for a while now. That he can’t stop thinking of that night and the way moonlight glinted off his skin. That he loves every moment they talk and that when they stand close enough, Inigo feels sparks course beneath his skin. If they die tomorrow, it is enough to have known him and loved him, even if this truth dies with him.

This truth will die with him.

“There is nothing,” Inigo lies. “But thank you, Owain. Sincerely.”

It doesn’t satisfy Owain, not completely, Inigo can see it in his eyes. But Owain does not push it. Instead, he just nods, throws some torn grass out into the wind and watches it drift out to sea before he regales Inigo with the story of how he found this view while helping a lost kitten out of a tree and fleeing from a pack of Risen.

They talk until the sun disappears beneath the horizon’s edge. Inigo laughs at Owain’s storytelling and drinks in Owain’s smile and has to stop himself from freezing once when Owain gives him a friendly touch on the shoulder. But the night comes, and Owain finally says, “Ready to walk back?”

Inigo nearly says no, but they stand and begin the trek down together.

The familiar sight of camp rises up to meet them. He can already smell the wood smoke of the campfires. Trees sprout from the ground around their camp, a few of them full of white blossoms. They’re a beautiful sight, and Inigo is taking it in when he notices two people standing beneath one of the blossoming trees. They’re too far for him to distinguish their faces, but he recognizes Laurent’s robes, Gerome’s dark armor.

“Oh,” he says. “I think we’ve stumbled on—hey!”

He almost stumbles over a root when Owain yanks him behind a tree.

“What are you—”

“Shh!” Owain hushes him with a palm over his mouth. Inigo pulls it away indignantly.

“What is it?” he hisses, quieter.

Owain peeks around the side of the tree. “Could it be? A secret rendezvous between two of our companions? A most interesting pair, indeed!”

“Stop spying on them.” Inigo peeks around the tree as well. “Is that Libra, too?” Even from this distance, he can recognize the white robes and pale hair. Libra holds a tome in his hands as he speaks to Gerome and Laurent.

Inigo gasps. “Wait. Is this—”

“Quiet, they’ll hear us!”

He recognizes a marriage when he sees one. It’s not the first to happen during their journey, after all. Brady was given the task of officiating until it became quickly clear he couldn’t get through a single ceremony without sobbing. Now, Libra makes a gesture and Gerome lifts an open palm for Laurent to lay his own hand upon it. Libra begins winding a ribbon around their hands, binding them together.

“It’s been long since I’ve seen one,” Inigo says. “I think I’ve forgotten how the ceremony goes, exactly.”

Libra closes the book in his hands, and Inigo doesn’t have to hear what he says to know what comes next. Laurent tilts his face up to Gerome, and Gerome moves to meet him.

Inigo turns away, feeling like an intruder. His heartbeat echoes in his ears.

A hand wraps around his arm.

“We should go,” Owain whispers.

The walk back is silent. Inigo doesn’t really know what to say to break it, and he’s mostly preoccupied with trying to sort out his own thoughts. He can’t place why he feels strange inside. He’s always known Laurent and Gerome are close, so seeing them together in such a manner isn’t entirely surprising.

His thoughts are interrupted by Owain speaking as they walk between long rows of tents. “Would it be strange to tell them congratulations?”

“And let them know we were spying?”

“It was coincidental! Besides, is this not a joyous occasion?”

“I’m happy for them,” Inigo allows. “But it’s a hell of a time to marry, isn’t it? With a malevolent dragon on the rise and all.”

“But that’s exactly it!”

Owain has that same shine in his eyes that he gets during his speeches, so bright it nearly hurts to look at.

He says, “This may be the only time.”

Suddenly, it makes sense. The strange feeling in Inigo’s gut. After all he’s been through, all he’s fought and killed to get here, cowardice is something Inigo thought he overcame long ago. Yet here he is, tongue weighed down by fear. How can he face Grima when he doesn’t even have the courage to admit how he feels to the boy he loves?

Inigo shivers. He wants to blame the night air but he knows that isn’t it. His stomach feels odd and fluttery, and it makes him restless, like his fingers need to grab and hold something. Owain walks on, Inigo behind him, and he can’t shake the feeling.

“Should I give them a gift?” Owain wonders aloud, touching his chin in thought. “What does one give to recently married friends? Perhaps I could name one of my attacks after them…”

Inigo recognizes Owain’s tent as they approach it. The restless feeling within him worsens, and he’s tugging Owain’s sleeve before he can stop himself.

Owain halts. “What is it?”

“I…” Inigo swallows. “I have something I would like to speak to you about. Alone.”

The beat of silence that follows almost makes him take back his words. But then Owain nods and pulls aside the flap of his tent. He drops it when they step inside, and they are cast in darkness save the glow of firelight outside, barely seeping through. But Inigo can see him. He can see the concern written on his face, the wrinkle between his eyebrows that he wants to smooth away with his thumb. His heart suddenly feels too big for his chest.

“Inigo?” Owain says, in a soft voice that makes Inigo shiver again.

The tent is small enough that they barely stand apart from each other, so Inigo doesn’t need to reach far to trace his fingers against Owain’s cheek. He hears Owain suck in a breath.

“Please feel free to stop me if you wish,” he whispers, and leans in.

Owain does not move away. His lips part slightly just before Inigo’s mouth meets his. The kiss is soft, chaste. It ends quickly.

Owain is silent and wide-eyed. Inigo’s hand moves to cover his burning face, his body already turning towards the exit. “I’ll go.”

“W-Wait!”

Owain catches his shoulder, pulls until Inigo faces him.

He kisses back.

A weak sound slips out of Inigo’s throat when he does. Owain’s hand grasps the back of his neck, rough in its clumsiness, but Inigo doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind at all.

He curls his fingers desperately into Owain’s shoulders, unsure of what to do, where to place them. It’s far from his first kiss, but it’s never felt like this before. Like he’s close to shattering into pieces, and Owain’s touch is the only thing holding him together.

“Owain.” His voice trembles between their mouths.

“It’s okay.” Owain cups Inigo’s face in his hands. “It’s okay. I… I think I feel the same, too.”

“Oh,” Inigo says, blushing so hard he feels sweat at his temple. “I—That’s—”

It’s difficult to explain in words exactly how he feels in this moment. But somehow he wants Owain to know that despite everything, all his fear and uncertainty and hopelessness, this is the one solid thing in the middle of it all. He thought it was enough to keep it to himself, but now that Owain knows and, even more incredibly, feels the same in return, he can see how wrong he was.

“I can see you thinking.” Owain nudges against Inigo’s cheek with his nose, warm breath ghosting over Inigo’s skin.

He reacts instinctively and says, “Well, one of us has to.” As Owain starts to scowl, Inigo kisses him again, trying to convey an apology through it, and he feels the downward curve of Owain’s mouth give away.

No, it wasn’t enough to keep it to himself. Even as the kisses deepen—Owain’s fingers sliding through Inigo’s hair, Inigo’s hand dragging over Owain’s chest, feeling his heartbeat there—it still doesn’t feel like enough. He catches Owain’s lip with his teeth and the gasp it elicits makes his stomach jump.

It isn’t enough.

Owain pulls Inigo by the collar down onto the bedroll, fumbling in his movements in a way Inigo finds charming until Owain plants his mouth and teeth on Inigo’s neck and he struggles to hold on to coherent thought.

It isn’t enough.

Owain’s flushed face is buried in the junction of Inigo’s neck and shoulder while Inigo’s hand is shoved down Owain’s pants. Owain makes these small noises, surprisingly shy for someone so bold in his usual speech. Inigo’s hand quickens, and it’s his turn to be clumsy but Owain doesn’t complain at all. He tenses, pulling Inigo closer, hips stuttering under Inigo’s hand as he comes.

“Inigo,” he gasps, in a broken voice that Inigo will never forget.

He pushes Owain’s sweaty bangs from his forehead with his clean hand, and Owain catches his wrist, turns it until he can touch his lips to the tender skin over his pulse. And in that moment, Inigo realizes none of this is enough.

He wants to live. Fiercely, desperately. Wants tomorrow and the day after that, with Owain, with his friends and family, with the future reclaimed for all of them.

* * *

Sunlight. Bright and clear.

Inigo squints against it, raising a hand to shade his eyes. The clouds disappeared and stayed gone through the voyage from Origin Peak back to Port Ferox, leaving only a wide open sky stretched out over them. He stares blankly up at it like it’s a dream due to disappear at any moment, but then someone shoves a tankard of ale into his hand and slaps him heartily on the shoulder. There are others who come after, his friends and allies and Port Ferox locals who’ve come to celebrate the impossible. The sky is clear. Grima is no more.

He takes the ale even though he has no taste for it, but he’s more drunk on the joy of his companions anyway. The villagers show their gratitude in large baskets of fresh baked bread, platters of fruit and cheese, barrels of ale, bottles of wine. There is music and dancing, colorful lanterns strung along the streets. The Shepherds take all of it in gratefully, the villagers’ cheer contagious, though it isn’t enough to completely erase the lingering sadness from the loss of their tactician. But they have each other, and they have a feeling they’ll see Robin again someday.

“Inigo,” Olivia says, her orange sash glimmering in her hands. “Let’s dance!” She tugs at Inigo’s wrists, urging him out of his seat in Port Ferox’s plaza where the festivities have centered.

The old protest rises to his lips again after glancing around at the people who will see. But he can’t say no this time, not with Olivia smiling so widely, not with the future so bright and open before them.

“Alright,” he says, laughing lightly. “One moment.”

He reaches a hand into his pack, pulls out an identical sash and rises to his feet to join her.

It’s the routine he practiced every day after she died, finally complete after Olivia taught him the proper movements. They dance in near-perfect mirror images of each other, though there is no duplicating Olivia’s natural grace and years of training. But Inigo focuses less on the intricacies of the dance and more on the happiness of finally doing this together, no longer weighed down by fear of judgment or scrutiny. Olivia laughs freely with each twirl, and next to her Inigo smiles so much his cheeks ache.

In the midst of it all, something catches his eye, makes him blink and look again and nearly miss his next step.

Owain is watching, standing in the crowd and eating grapes from a bunch of them in his hand. Inigo feels his gaze more heavily than anyone else’s, and his instinctual self-consciousness is quickly beaten out by the sudden desire to keep Owain’s eyes on him.

“You’re staring,” Olivia points out with a devious glint in her eye. “Go on, already.”

“ _Mother_.” Inigo blushes.

She only gives him an encouraging push on the back before falling back into the rhythm of the music. Owain is grinning as Inigo approaches.

“A beautiful dance, indeed! Surely there will be songs written of this day: the dance of the illustrious Inigo, heralding a new era after the demise of the Fell Dragon.”

“They’ll sing about my mother, not me,” Inigo retorts, stealing a grape from Owain’s hand. Then, more sheepishly, “Was I alright? Truly?”

“Of course! Inigo, you…” Owain’s cheeks tinge red. “It’s impossible to take my eyes off of you.”

It’s too much, far too much for Inigo to handle right now. He nearly covers his face with his hands, and a pleased smile tries to fight its way onto his face. He must recompose himself lest Owain realize how much of an effect his words had on him. Inigo takes another grape, makes a show of pushing it slowly past his lips with just a little more tongue than necessary. It’s worth it to see Owain’s face erupt in red.

“Come on,” Inigo says and drapes his sash over Owain’s neck, pulling him in. “A dance.”

“Oh no, I’m no dancer—”

“Nonsense! You need only listen to the music and do what your heart tells you.”

“That’s easy for you to say!”

“Don't worry so much, I’ll help you.”

“Inigo!”

The plaza is crowded with people and they hardly pay attention to Inigo dragging Owain into the thick of it. Music lilts through the air, and he even catches a few strains of Brady’s violin. He places Owain’s hand on his waist and Owain turns impossibly redder, and he would laugh if he wasn’t feeling flustered himself and if the heat of Owain’s palm wasn’t so distracting.

“Try to relax,” he says, which only makes Owain straighten his spine further.

“I don’t have a clue what I’m doing.”

“It’s alright.” Inigo smiles as he laces his fingers behind Owain’s neck. “You’re doing great.”

“Perhaps you can teach me, after this.” Owain watches his feet to make sure he doesn’t step on Inigo’s.

“Of course. I’m sure dancing is a necessary skill for a knight at the capital.”

“About that…” Owain clears his throat. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Oh?”

“All this time spent traveling back and forth, I never actually got to enjoy much of it.”

Inigo nods, listening.

“And I thought… If we made it through this, if we actually managed to defeat Grima... I think I want to travel again. See places properly, without worrying so much about the world ending.”

It’s a pleasant thought, one Inigo’s entertained himself. “Sounds nice.”

“You think so?” Owain gaze turns hopeful. “Because—well, I was wondering if you want to go with me.”

“Are you asking me to run away with you?” Inigo laughs but he feels breathless.

“O-Only if you want to! Not for forever anyway, I’ll return to Ylisstol eventually. But I would greatly enjoy your company for however long you’re willing, though of course you are free to leave whenever you’d like because I know you have your own ambitions—”

“Owain.” Inigo presses his fingertips to Owain’s lips to stop him. “I would love to.”

Owain stares. “Really?”

“Yes.”

Inigo suddenly finds himself being squeezed. It is tight and admittedly a little difficult to breathe, but Owain is warm and clutching Inigo in his arms like he’ll never let him go, and Inigo doesn’t want it to end. He hugs Owain back.

When he does, Owain actually lifts him up in the embrace, making Inigo laugh in surprise.

“Owain!”

“Sorry, I just—” Owain looks up at him with a smile so wide. “I’ve never been this happy.”

If Inigo were capable, he would melt right there. Instead, he leans his head down and kisses him. They don’t break contact even as Owain lowers him, Inigo’s toes touching the ground again. He doesn’t care about all the people around them, even when he hears Cynthia whistle loudly in their direction. He can feel Owain’s smile against his lips.

It’s the end of their journey but the start of another one entirely. For the first time in a long time, Inigo cannot wait to see what tomorrow brings.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
